THE AFFAIR AT SALEM CEMETERY. JACKSON, CARROLL STATION. DECEMBER, 1862,
JANUARY, 1863. BOLIVAR. FEBRUARY-MAY, 1863.
On the afternoon of December 18th, suddenly, without any previous
warning or notification, the bugle sounded "Fall in!" and all the
regiment fit for duty and not on guard at once formed on the regimental
parade ground. From there we marched to the depot, and with the 43rd
Illinois of our brigade got on the cars, and were soon being whirled
over the road in a northerly direction. It was a warm, sunshiny day,
and we common soldiers supposed we were going on just some little
temporary scout, so we encumbered ourselves with nothing but our arms,
and haversacks, and canteens. Neglecting to take our blankets was a
grievous mistake, as later we found out to our sorrow. We arrived at
Jackson a little before sundown, there left the cars, and, with the
43rd, forthwith marched out about two miles east of town. A little
after dark we halted in an old field on the left of the road, in front
of a little old country graveyard called Salem Cemetery, and there
bivouacked for the night. Along in the evening the weather turned
intensely cold. It was a clear, star-lit night, and the stars glittered
in the heavens like little icicles. We were strictly forbidden to build
any fires, for the reason, as our officers truly said, the Confederates
were not more than half a mile away, right in our front. As before
stated, we had no blankets, and how we suffered with the cold! I shall
never forget that night of December 18th, 1862. We would form little
columns of twenty or thirty men, in two ranks, and would just trot
round and round in the tall weeds and broom sedge to keep from chilling
to death. Sometimes we would pile down on the ground in great bunches,
and curl up close together like hogs, in our efforts to keep warm. But
some part of our bodies would be exposed, which soon would be stinging
with cold, then up we would get and renew the trotting process. At one
time in the night some of the boys, rendered almost desperate by their
suffering started to build a fire with some fence rails. The red flames
began to curl around the wood, and I started for the fire, intending to
absorb some of that glowing heat, if, as Uncle Remus says, "it wuz de
las' ack." But right then a mounted officer dashed up to the spot, and
sprang from his horse. He was wearing big cavalry boots, and jumped on
that fire with both feet and stamped it out in less time than I am
taking to tell about it. I heard afterwards that he was Col. Engelmann,
of the 43rd Illinois, then the commander of our brigade. Having put out
the fire, he turned on the men standing around, and swore at them
furiously. He said that the rebels were right out in our front, and in
less than five minutes after we had betrayed our presence by fires,
they would open on us with artillery, and "shell hell out of us;"--and
more to the same effect. The boys listened in silence, meek as lambs,
and no more fires were started by us that night. But the hours seemed
interminably long, and it looked like the night would never come to an
end. At last some little woods birds were heard, faintly chirping in
the weeds and underbrush near by, then some owls set up a hooting in
the woods behind us, and I knew that dawn was approaching. When it
became light enough to distinguish one another, we saw that we
presented a doleful appearance--all hollow-eyed, with blue noses,
pinched faces, and shivering as if we would shake to pieces. Permission
was then given to build small fires to cook our breakfast, and we
didn't wait for the order to be repeated. I made a quart canful of
strong, hot coffee, toasted some bacon on a stick, and then, with some
hardtack, had a good breakfast and felt better. Breakfast over (which
didn't take long), the regiment was drawn back into the cemetery, and
placed in line behind the section of inclosing fence that faced to the
front. The fence was of post and plank, the planks arranged lengthwise,
with spaces between. We were ordered to lie flat on the ground, and
keep the barrels of our guns out of sight, as much as possible. Our
position in general may be described about as follows: The right of the
regiment rested near the dirt road, and at right angles to it. The
ground before us was open for more than half a mile. It sloped down
gently, then it rose gradually to a long, bare ridge, or slight
elevation of ground, which extended parallel to our front. The road was
enclosed by an old-time staked and ridered fence, of the "worm"
pattern. On our right, and on the other side of the road, was a thick
forest of tall trees, in which the 43rd Illinois was posted. The
cemetery was thickly studded with tall, native trees, and a few
ornamental ones, such as cedar and pine. Soon after we had been put in
position, as above stated, Col. Engelmann, the brigade commander, came
galloping up, and stopped about opposite the front of the regiment.
Maj. Ohr, our regimental commander, who was in the rear of the regiment
on foot, walked out to meet him. Engelmann was a German, and a splendid
officer.
"Goot morning, Major," he said, in a loud voice we all heard. "How are
de poys?" "All right," answered the Major; "we had rather a chilly
night, but are feeling first rate now." "Dat iss goot," responded the
Colonel; and continued in his loud tone, "our friends are right out
here in de bush; I reckon dey'll show up presently. Maybe so dey will
give us a touch of deir artillery practice,--but dat hurts nobody.
Shoost have de poys keep cool."
Then he approached the Major closer, said something in a low tone we
did not hear, waved his hand to us, and then galloped off to the right.
He was hardly out of sight, when sure enough, two or three cannon shots
were heard out in front, followed by a scattering fire of small arms.
We had a small force of our cavalry in the woods beyond the ridge I
have mentioned, and they soon appeared, slowly falling back. They were
spread out in a wide, extended skirmish line, and acted fine. They
would trot a little ways to the rear, then face about, and fire their
carbines at the advancing foe, who, as yet, was unseen by us. Finally
they galloped off to the left and disappeared in the woods, and all was
still for a short time. Suddenly, without a note of warning, and not
preceded by even a skirmish line, there appeared coming over the ridge
in front, and down the road, a long column of Confederate cavalry! They
were, when first seen, at a walk, and marching by the flank, with a
front of four men. How deep the column was we could not tell. The word
was immediately passed down our line not to fire until at the word of
command, and that we were to fire by file, beginning on the right. That
is, only two men, front and rear rank, would fire together, and so on,
down the line. The object of this was apparent: by the time the left of
the regiment had emptied their guns, the right would have reloaded, and
thus a continuous firing would be maintained. With guns cocked and
fingers on the triggers, we waited in tense anxiety for the word to
fire. Maj. Ohr was standing a few paces in the rear of the center of
the regiment, watching the advance of the enemy. Finally, when they
were in fair musket range, came the order, cool and deliberate, without
a trace of excitement: "At-ten-shun, bat-tal-yun! Fire by file!
Ready!--Commence firing!" and down the line crackled the musketry.
Concurrently with us, the old 43rd Illinois on the right joined in the
serenade. In the front file of the Confederate column was one of the
usual fellows with more daring than discretion, who was mounted on a
tall, white horse. Of course, as long as that horse was on its feet,
everybody shot at him, or the rider. But that luckless steed soon went
down in a cloud of dust, and that was the end of old Whitey. The effect
of our fire on the enemy was marked and instantaneous. The head of
their column crumpled up instanter, the road was full of dead and
wounded horses, while several that were riderless went galloping down
the road by us, with bridle reins and stirrups flapping on their necks
and flanks. I think there is no doubt that the Confederates were taken
completely by surprise. They stopped short when we opened on them,
wheeled around, and went back much faster than they came, except a
little bunch who had been dismounted. They hoisted a white rag, came
in, and surrendered. The whole affair was exceedingly "short and
sweet;" in duration it could not have exceeded more than a few minutes,
but it was highly interesting as long as it lasted. But now the turn of
the other fellows was to come. Soon after their charging column
disappeared behind the ridge in our front, they put in position on the
crest of the ridge two black, snaky looking pieces of artillery, and
began giving us the benefit of the "artillery practice" Col. Engelmann
had alluded to. They were beyond the range of our muskets; we had no
artillery with our little force, and just had to lie there and take it.
I know nothing about the technicalities of cannon firing, so I can only
describe in my own language how it appeared to us. The enemy now knew
just where we were, there were no obstructions between them and us, and
they concentrated their fire on our regiment. Sometimes they threw a
solid shot at us, but mostly they fired shells. They were in plain
sight, and we could see every movement connected with the firing of the
guns. After a piece was fired, the first thing done was to "swab" it.
Two men would rush to the muzzle with the swabber, give it a few quick
turns in the bore, then throw down the swabber and grab up the rammer.
Another man would then run forward with the projectile and insert it in
the muzzle of the piece, the rammers would ram it home, and then stand
clear. The man at the breech would then pull the lanyard,--and now look
out! A tongue of red flame would leap from the mouth of the cannon,
followed by a billow of white smoke; then would come the scream of the
missile as it passed over our heads (if a solid shot), or exploded near
our front or rear (if a shell), and lastly we would hear the report of
the gun. Then we all drew a long breath. When they threw shells at us
their method was to elevate the muzzle of the gun, and discharge the
missile in such a manner that it would describe what I suppose would be
called the parabola of a curve. As it would be nearing the zenith of
its flight we could follow it distinctly with the naked eye. It looked
like a big, black bug. You may rest assured that we watched the
downward course of this messenger of mischief with the keenest
interest. Sometimes it looked as if it would hit our line, sure, but it
never did. And, as stated, we could only lie there and watch all this,
without the power on our part to do a thing in return. Such a situation
is trying on the nerves. But firing at our line was much like shooting
at the edge of a knife-blade, and their practice on us, which lasted at
least two hours, for all practical results, to quote Col. Engelmann,
"shoost hurt nobody." A private of Co. G had his head carried away by a
fragment of a shell, and a few others were slightly injured, and that
was the extent of our casualties. After enduring this cannonading for
the time above stated, Col. Engelmann became apprehensive that the
Confederate cavalry were flanking us, and trying to get between us and
Jackson, so he ordered our force to retire. We fell back, in good
order, for about a mile, then halted, and faced to the front again.
Reinforcements soon came out from Jackson, and then the whole command
advanced, but the enemy had disappeared. Our regiment marched in column
by the flank up the road down which the Confederates had made their
charge. They had removed their killed and wounded, but at the point
reached by their head of column, the road was full of dead horses. Old
Whitey was sprawled out in the middle of the lane, "with his nostrils
all wide," and more than a dozen bullet holes in his body. Near his
carcass I saw a bloody yarn sock, with a bullet hole square through the
instep. I made up my mind then and there, that if ever I happened to
get into the cavalry I would, if possible, avoid riding a white horse.
I will now say something about poor Sam Cobb, heretofore mentioned, and
then he will disappear from this history. Sam was with us at the
beginning of this affair on December 19th, but the very instant that
the enemy came in sight he broke from the ranks and ran, and never
showed up until we returned to Jackson some days later. He then had one
of his hands tied up, and claimed that he had been wounded in the
fight. The nature of his wound was simply a neat little puncture,
evidently made by a pointed instrument, in the ball of the forefinger
of one of his hands. Not a shot had been fired at us up to the time
when he fled, so it was impossible for his hurt to have been inflicted
by the enemy. It was the belief of all of us that he had put his
forefinger against a tree, and then jabbed the point of his bayonet
through the ball thereof. I heard Capt. Reddish in bitter language
charge him with this afterwards, and poor Sam just hung his head and
said nothing. When the regiment veteranized in 1864, Sam didn't
re-enlist, and was mustered out in February, 1865, at the end of his
term of service. On returning to his old home, he found that his
reputation in the army had preceded him, and it is likely that the
surroundings were not agreeable. At any rate, he soon left there,
emigrated to a southwestern State, and died there several years ago. In
my opinion, he really was to be sincerely pitied, for I think, as he
had told me at Bolivar, he just "couldn't help it."
We advanced this day (December 19) only two or three miles beyond Salem
Cemetery, and bivouacked for the night in an old field. The weather had
changed, and was now quite pleasant; besides, the embargo on fires was
lifted, so the discomfort of the previous night was only something to
be laughed about. The next day we were afoot early, and marched east in
the direction of Lexington about fifteen miles. But we encountered no
enemy, and on December 21 turned square around and marched back to
Jackson. Gen. Forrest was in command of the Confederate cavalry
operating in this region, and he completely fooled Gen. J. C. Sullivan,
the Union commander of the district of Jackson. While we were on this
wild-goose chase towards Lexington, Forrest simply whirled around our
flanks at Jackson, and swept north on the railroad, scooping in almost
everything to the Kentucky line, and burning bridges and destroying
culverts on the railroad in great shape.
During our short stay that ensued at Jackson, an event occurred that I
have always remembered with pleasure. In 1916 I wrote a brief
preliminary statement touching this Salem Cemetery affair, followed by
one of my army letters, the two making a connected article, and the
same was published in the Erie (Kansas) "Record." It may result in some
repetition, but I have concluded to here reproduce this published
article, which I have called, "A Soldier's Christmas Dinner."
A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS DINNER.
By Judge Leander Stillwell.
Christmas Day in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-two was a
gloomy one, in every respect, for the soldiers of the Union army in
West Tennessee. Five days before, the Confederate General Van Dorn
had captured Grant's depot of supplies at Holly Springs, and
government stores of the value of a million and a half of dollars
had gone up in smoke and flame. About the same time Forrest had
struck the Mobile and Ohio railroad, on which we depended to bring
us from the north our supplies of hardtack and bacon, and had made
a wreck of the road from about Jackson, Tennessee, nearly to
Columbus, Kentucky. For some months previous to these disasters the
regiment to which I belonged, the 61st Illinois Infantry, had been
stationed at Bolivar, Tennessee, engaged in guarding the railroad
from that place to Toone's Station, a few miles north of Bolivar.
On December 18, with another regiment of our brigade, we were sent
by rail to Jackson to assist in repelling Forrest, who was
threatening that place. On the following day the two regiments,
numbering in the aggregate about 500 men, in connection with a
small detachment of our cavalry, had a lively and spirited little
brush with the Confederate forces about two miles east of Jackson,
near a country burying ground called Salem Cemetery, which resulted
in our having the good fortune to give them a salutary check.
Reinforcements were sent out from Jackson, and Forrest disappeared.
The next day our entire command marched about fifteen miles
eastwardly in the direction of the Tennessee river. It was
doubtless supposed by our commanding general that the Confederates
had retreated in that direction, but he was mistaken. Forrest had
simply whipped around Jackson, struck the railroad a few miles
north thereof, and then had continued north up the road, capturing
and destroying as he went. On the succeeding day, December 21st, we
all marched back to Jackson, and my regiment went into camp on a
bleak, muddy hillside in the suburbs of the town, and there we
remained until December 29th, when we were sent to Carroll Station,
about eight miles north of Jackson.
I well remember how gloomy I felt on the morning of that Christmas
Day at Jackson, Tennessee. I was then only a little over nineteen
years of age. I had been in the army nearly a year, lacking just a
few days, and every day of that time, except a furlough of two days
granted at our camp of instruction before we left Illinois for the
front, had been passed with the regiment in camp and field.
Christmas morning my thoughts naturally turned to the little old
log cabin in the backwoods of western Illinois, and I couldn't help
thinking about the nice Christmas dinner that I knew the folks at
home would sit down to on that day.
There would be a great chicken pot pie, with its savory crust and a
superabundance of light, puffy dumplings; delicious light, hot
biscuits; a big ball of our own home-made butter, yellow as gold;
broad slices of juicy ham, the product of hogs of our own
fattening, and home cured with hickory-wood smoke; fresh eggs from
the barn in reckless profusion, fried in the ham gravy; mealy Irish
potatoes, baked in their jackets; coffee with cream about half an
inch thick; apple butter and crab apple preserves; a big plate of
wild honey in the comb; and winding up with a thick wedge of mince
pie that mother knew so well how to make--such mince pie, in fact,
as was made only in those days, and is now as extinct as the dodo.
And when I turned from these musings upon the bill of fare they
would have at home to contemplate the dreary realities of my own
possible dinner for the day--my oyster can full of coffee and a
quarter ration of hardtack and sow-belly comprised the menu. If the
eyes of some old soldier should light upon these lines, and he
should thereupon feel disposed to curl his lip with unutterable
scorn and say: "This fellow was a milksop and ought to have been
fed on Christian Commission and Sanitary goods, and put to sleep at
night with a warm rock at his feet;"--I can only say in extenuation
that the soldier whose feelings I have been trying to describe was
only a boy--and, boys, you probably know how it was yourselves
during the first year of your army life. But, after all, the
soldier had a Christmas dinner that day, and it is of that I have
started out to speak.
Several years ago my old army letters, which had been so carefully
kept and cherished for all these many years, passed from the
keeping of those to whom they had been addressed, back into the
possession of him who penned them, and now, after the lapse of
fifty-four years, one of these old letters, written to my father,
shall re-tell the story of this Christmas dinner.
"Jackson, Tennessee,
December 27, 1862.
"Mr. J. O. Stillwell,
"Otter Creek, Illinois.
"I wrote you a short and hasty letter the fore part of this
week to let you know that I was all right, and giving you a
brief account of our late ups and downs, but I doubt if you
have received it. The cars have not been running since we came
back to Jackson from our march after Forrest. The talk in camp
is that the rebs have utterly destroyed the railroad north of
here clean to the Mississippi river, and that they have also
broken it in various places and damaged it badly south of here
between Bolivar and Grand Junction. I have no idea when this
letter will reach you, but will write it anyhow, and trust to
luck and Uncle Sam to get it through in course of time.
"We are now in camp on a muddy hillside in the outskirts of
Jackson. I think the spot where we are must have been a cavalry
camp last summer. Lots of corn cobs are scattered on the
ground, old scraps of harness leather, and such other truck as
accumulates where horses are kept standing around. When we left
Bolivar we were in considerable of a hurry, with no time to
primp or comb our hair, and neither did we bring our tents
along, so we are just living out of doors now, and "boarding at
Sprawl's." There is plenty of wood, though, to make fires, and
we have jayhawked enough planks and boards to lie on to keep us
out of the mud, so we just curl up at night in our blankets
with all our clothes on, and manage to get along fairly well.
Our worst trouble now is the lack of grub. The destruction of
the railroad has cut off our supplies, and there is no telling
just exactly how long it may be before it will be fixed and in
running order again, so they have been compelled, I suppose, to
cut down our rations. We get half rations of coffee, and
quarter rations of hardtack and bacon. What we call small
rations, such as Yankee beans, rice, and split peas, are played
out; at least, we don't get any. The hardtack is so precious
now that the orderly sergeant no longer knocks a box open and
lets every man help himself, but he stands right over the box
and counts the number of tacks he gives to every man. I never
thought I'd see the day when army hardtack would be in such
demand that they'd have to be counted out to the soldiers as if
they were money, but that's what's the matter now. And that
ain't all. The boys will stand around until the box is emptied,
and then they will pick up the fragments that have fallen to
the ground in the divide, and scrape off the mud with their
knives, and eat the little pieces, and glad to get them. Now
and then, to help out the sow-belly, we get quarter rations of
fresh beef from the carcass of a Tennessee steer that the
quartermaster manages to lay hands on somehow. But it's awful
poor beef, lean, slimy, skinny and stringy. The boys say that
one can throw a piece up against a tree, and it will just stick
there and quiver and twitch for all the world like one of those
blue-bellied lizards at home will do when you knock him off a
fence rail with a stick.
"I just wish that old Forrest, who is the cause of about all
this trouble, had to go without anything to eat until he was so
weak that he would have to be fed with a spoon. Maybe after he
had been hungry real good for a while he'd know how it feels
himself, and would let our railroads alone.
"But I want to tell you that I had a real bully Christmas
dinner, in spite of old Forrest and the whole caboodle. It was
just a piece of the greatest good luck I've had for many a day.
"When Christmas morning came I was feeling awful blue. In spite
of all I could do, I couldn't help but think about the good
dinner you folks at home would have that day, and I pictured it
all out in my imagination. Then about every one of the boys had
something to say about what he would have for Christmas dinner
if he was home, and they'd run over the list of good things
till it was almost enough to make one go crazy. To make matters
worse, just the day before in an old camp I had found some
tattered fragments of a New York illustrated newspaper with a
whole lot of pictures about Thanksgiving Day in the Army of the
Potomac. They were shown as sitting around piles of roast
turkeys, pumpkin pies, pound cake, and goodness knows what
else, and I took it for granted that they would have the same
kind of fodder today. You see, the men in that army, by means
of their railroads, are only a few hours from home, and old
Forrest is not in their neighborhood, so it is an easy thing
for them to have good times. And here we were, away down in
Tennessee, in the mud and the cold, no tents, on quarter
rations, and picking scraps of hardtack out of the mud and
eating them--it was enough to make a preacher swear. But along
about noon John Richey came to me and proposed that inasmuch as
it was Christmas Day, we should strike out and forage for a
square meal. It didn't take much persuasion, and straightway we
sallied forth. I wanted to hunt up the old colored woman who
gave me the mess of boiled roasting ears when we were here last
summer, but John said he thought he had a better thing than
that, and as he is ten years older than I am, I knocked under
and let him take the lead.
"About half a mile from our camp, in the outskirts of the town,
we came to a large, handsome, two-story and a half frame house,
with a whole lot of nigger cabins in the rear. John took a
survey of the premises and said, 'Lee, right here's our meat.'
We went into the yard at a little side gate between the big
house and the nigger quarters, and were steering for one of the
cabins, when out steps from the back porch of the big house the
lady of the place herself. That spoiled the whole game; John
whirled in his tracks and commenced to sidle away. But the lady
walked towards us and said in a very kind and friendly manner:
'Do you men want anything?' 'Oh, no, ma'am,' replied John; 'we
just came here to see if we could get some of the colored women
to do some washing for us, but I guess we'll not bother about
it today;' still backing away as he spoke. But the lady was not
satisfied. Looking at us very sharply, she asked: 'Don't you
men want something to eat?' My heart gave a great thump at
that, but, to my inexpressible disgust, John, with his head
thrown back and nose pointed skyward, answered, speaking very
fast, 'Oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am, a thousand times
obleeged, ma'am,' and continued his sneaking retreat. By this
time I had hold of the cape of his overcoat and was plucking it
in utter desperation. 'John,' I said, speaking low, 'what in
thunder do you mean? This is the best chance we'll ever have.'
I was looking at the lady meanwhile in the most imploring
manner, and she was regarding me with a kind of a pleasant,
amused smile on her face. She saw, I guess, a mighty dirty
looking boy, whose nose and face were pinched and blue with
hunger, cold, loss of sleep, and hard knocks generally, and she
brought the business to a head at once. 'You men come right
in,' she said, as if she was the major-general commanding the
department. 'We have just finished our dinner, but in a few
minutes the servants can have something prepared for you,--and
I think you are hungry.' John, with the most aggravating mock
modesty that I ever saw in my life, began saying: 'We are very
much obleeged, ma'am, but we haven't the slightest occasion in
the world to eat, ma'am, and----' when I couldn't stand it any
longer for fear he would ruin everything after all. 'Madam,' I
said, 'please don't pay any attention to what my partner says,
for we are most desperately hungry.' The lady laughed right out
at that, and said, 'I thought so; come in.'
"She led the way into the basement story of the house, where
the dining room was, (all the rich people in the South have
their dining rooms in the basement,) and there was a nice warm
room, a dining table in the center, with the cloth and dishes
yet on it, and a big fireplace at one end of the room, where a
crackling wood fire was burning. I tell you, it was different
from our muddy camp on the bleak hillside, where the wind blows
the smoke from our fires of green logs in every direction about
every minute of the day. I sat down by the fire to warm my
hands and feet, which were cold. A colored girl came in and
commenced to arrange the table, passing back and forth from the
dining room to the kitchen, and in a short time the lady told
us that our dinner was ready, to sit up to the table, and eat
heartily. We didn't wait for a second invitation that time.
And, oh, what a dinner we had! There was a great pile of juicy,
fried beefsteak, cooked to perfection and tender as chicken;
nice, warm light bread, a big cake of butter, stewed dried
apples, cucumber pickles, two or three kinds of preserves,
coffee with sugar and cream, and some of the best molasses I
ever tasted,--none of this sour, scorched old sorghum stuff,
but regular gilt-edge first class New Orleans golden syrup,
almost as sweet as honey. Then, to top off with, there was a
nice stewed dried apple pie, and some kind of a custard in
little dishes, something different from anything in that line
that I had ever seen before, but mighty good. And then, in
addition to all that, we were seated on chairs, at a table with
a white cloth on it, and eating out of china plates and with
knives and forks, a colored girl waiting on us, and the lady of
the house sitting there and talking to us as pleasantly as if
we were Grant and Halleck in person. Under the influence of the
good grub, John thawed out considerably, and made a full
confession to the lady about his queer actions at the
beginning. He told her that we were going to the nigger
quarters to try to get something to eat, and that when she came
out and gave us such a kind invitation to come in the house, he
was too much ashamed of our appearance to accept. That we had
come up from Bolivar about a week before, riding on top of the
box cars, where we got all covered with smoke, dust, and
cinders; then ordered out to the front that night, then the
fight with Forrest the next day, then the march towards the
Tennessee river and back of about forty miles, and since then
in camp with no shelter, tramping around in the mud, and
sleeping on the ground; that on account of all these things we
looked so rough and so dirty that he just felt ashamed to go
into a nice house where handsome, well-dressed ladies were. Oh!
I tell you, old John is no slouch; he patched up matters
remarkably well. The lady listened attentively, said she knew
we were hungry the moment she saw us, that she had heard the
soldiers were on short rations in consequence of the
destruction of the railroad, and turning towards me she went on
to say: 'There was such a pitiful, hungry look on this boy's
face that it would have haunted me for a long time if I had let
you go away without giving you a dinner. Many a hungry
soldier,' she continued, 'both of the Northern and Southern
army, has had something to eat at this table, and I expect many
more will in the future, before this terrible and distressing
war shall have come to an end.' She didn't say a word, though,
by which we could tell whether her sympathies were on the Union
side or against us, and of course we didn't try to find out.
She was just the sweetest looking woman I have yet seen in the
whole Southern Confederacy. If they have any angels anywhere
that look kinder, or sweeter, or purer than she did, I would
just like to see them trotted out. I guess she was about
thirty-five years old. She was of medium height, a little on
the plump order, with blue eyes, brown hair, a clear, ruddy
complexion, and the whitest, softest looking little hands I
ever saw in my life.
"When we had finished our dinner, John and I thanked her ever
so many times for her kindness, and then bade her a most
respectful good-by. He and I both agreed on our way back to
camp to say nothing about the lady and the nice dinner she gave
us, because if we blowed about it, the result would probably be
more hungry callers than her generosity could well afford.
"But these close times I guess are not going to last much
longer. The talk in camp this evening is that we are going to
have full rations once more in a day or two, that the railroad
will soon be in running order again, and then we can just snap
our fingers at old Forrest and his whole outfit.
"Well, I will bring my letter to a close. Don't worry if you
fail to get a letter from me now as regularly as before. Things
are a trifle unsettled down here yet, and we may not be able to
count on the usual regularity of the mails for some time to
come.
"So good-by for this time.
"LEANDER STILLWELL."
Soon after we returned to Jackson a detail of some from each company
was sent to Bolivar and brought up our knapsacks and blankets, and we
were then more comfortable. On December 29th, my company and two others
of our regiment were sent by rail to Carroll Station, about eight miles
north of Jackson. There had been a detachment of about a hundred men of
the 106th Illinois Infantry previously stationed here, guarding the
railroad, but Forrest captured them about December 20th, so on our
arrival we found nothing but a crude sort of stockade, and the usual
rubbish of an old camp. There was no town there, it consisted only of a
platform and a switch. Our life here was somewhat uneventful, and I
recall now only two incidents which, possibly, are worth noticing. It
has heretofore been mentioned how I happened to learn when on picket at
night something about the nocturnal habits of different animals and
birds. I had a somewhat comical experience in this respect while on
guard one night near Carroll Station. But it should be preceded by a
brief explanation. It was no part of the duty of a non-commissioned
officer to stand a regular tour of guard duty, with his musket in his
hands. It was his province simply to exercise a general supervisory
control over the men at his post, and especially to see that they
relieved each other at the proper time. But it frequently happened in
our regiment that our numbers present for duty were so diminished, and
the guard details were so heavy, that the sergeants and corporals had
to stand as sentries just the same as the privates, and this was
especially so at Carroll Station.
On the occasion of the incident about to be mentioned, the picket post
was on the crest of a low ridge, or slight elevation, and under some
big oak trees by an old tumble-down deserted building which had at one
time been a blacksmith shop. There were three of us on this post, and
one of my turns came at midnight. I was standing by one of the trees,
listening, looking, and meditating. The night was calm, with a full
moon. The space in our front, sloping down to a little hollow, was
bare, but the ascending ground beyond was covered with a dense growth
of young oaks which had not yet shed their leaves. We had orders to be
extremely watchful and vigilant, as parties of the enemy were supposed
to be in our vicinity. Suddenly I heard in front, and seemingly in the
farther edge of the oak forest, a rustling sound that soon increased in
volume. Whatever was making the noise was coming my way, through the
trees, and down the slope of the opposite ridge. The noise grew louder,
and louder, until it sounded just like the steady tramp, over the
leaves and dead twigs, of a line of marching men, with a front a
hundred yards in width. I just knew there must be trouble ahead, and
that the Philistines were upon me. But a sentinel who made a false
alarm while on duty was liable to severe punishment, and, at any rate,
would be laughed at all over the regiment, and never hear the last of
it. So I didn't wake up my comrades, but got in the shadow of the trunk
of a tree, cocked my gun, and awaited developments. And soon they came.
The advancing line emerged from the forest into the moonlight, and it
was nothing but a big drove of hogs out on a midnight foraging
expedition for acorns and the like! Well, I let down the hammer of my
gun, and felt relieved,--and was mighty glad I hadn't waked the other
boys. But I still insist that this crackling, crashing uproar, made by
the advance of the "hog battalion" through the underbrush and woods,
under the circumstances mentioned, would have deceived "the very
elect."
A few days later I was again on picket at the old blacksmith shop. Our
orders were that at least once during the day one of the guard should
make a scout out in front for at least half a mile, carefully observing
all existing conditions, for the purpose of ascertaining if any parties
of the enemy were hovering around in our vicinity. On this day, after
dinner, I started out alone, on this little reconnoitering expedition.
I had gone something more than half a mile from the post, and was
walking along a dirt road with a cornfield on the left, and big woods
on the right. About a hundred yards in front, the road turned square to
the left, with a cornfield on each side. The corn had been gathered
from the stalk, and the stalks were still standing. Glancing to the
left, I happened to notice a white cloth fluttering above the
cornstalks, at the end of a pole, and slowly moving my way. And peering
through the tops of the stalks I saw coming down the road behind the
white flag about a dozen Confederate cavalry! I broke into a run, and
soon reached the turn in the road, cocked my gun, leveled it at the
party, and shouted, "Halt!" They stopped, mighty quick, and the bearer
of the flag called to me that they were a flag of truce party. I then
said, "Advance, One." Whereupon they all started forward. I again
shouted "Halt!" and repeated the command, "Advance, One!" The leader
then rode up alone, I keeping my gun cocked, and at a ready, and he
proceeded to tell me a sort of rambling, disjointed story about their
being a flag of truce party, on business connected with an exchange of
some wounded prisoners. I told the fellow that I would conduct him and
his squad to my picket post, and then send word to our commanding
officer, and he would take such action as he thought fit and proper. On
reaching the post, I sent in one of the guards to the station to report
to Lieut. Armstrong, in command of our detachment, that there was a
flag of truce party at my post who desired an interview with the
officer in command at Carroll Station. The Lieutenant soon arrived with
an armed party of our men, and he and the Confederate leader drew apart
and talked awhile. This bunch of Confederates were all young men, armed
with double-barreled shot-guns, and a decidedly tough-looking outfit.
They finally left my post, escorted by Lieut. Armstrong and his guard,
and I understood in a general way that he passed them on to someone
higher in authority at some other point in our vicinity, possibly at
Jackson. They may have been acting in good faith, but from the manner
of their leader, and the story he told me, I have always believed that
their use of a flag of truce was principally a device to obtain some
military intelligence,--but, of course, I do not know. My responsibility
ended when Lieut. Armstrong reached my picket post in response to the
message sent him.
We remained at Carroll Station until January 27, 1863, were then
relieved by a detachment of the 62nd Illinois Infantry, and were sent
by rail back to Bolivar, where we rejoined the balance of the regiment.
We then resumed our former duty of guarding the railroad north to
Toone's Station, and continued at this until the last of May, 1863. But
before taking up what happened then, it will be in order to speak of
some of the changes that in the meantime had occurred among the
commissioned officers of my company and of the regiment. Capt. Reddish
resigned April 3rd, 1863, First Lieutenant Daniel S. Keeley was
promoted Captain in his place, and Thomas J. Warren, the sergeant-major
of the regiment, was commissioned as First Lieutenant in Keeley's
stead. Lieut. Col. Fry resigned May 14, 1863. His place was taken by
Major Simon P. Ohr, and Daniel Grass, Captain of Co. H, was made Major.
The resignations of both Fry and Reddish, as I always have understood,
were because of ill-health. They were good and brave men, and their
hearts were in the cause, but they simply were too old to endure the
fatigue and hardships of a soldier's life. But they each lived to a
good old age. Col. Fry died in Greene county, Illinois, January 27th,
1881, aged nearly 82 years; and Capt. Reddish passed away in Dallas
county, Texas, December 30th, 1881, having attained the Psalmist's
limit of three score and ten.